


what stays and what fades away

by republica



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other, Religious Content, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:49:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/republica/pseuds/republica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan is taken back to Ragnar's house. He thinks he hates this man who's torn him from his life. But instead, he finds Lagertha and her husband to be not what he expected. </p><p>Basically just conjecture until Episode 3 comes out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wow this got away from me.
> 
> makin' stuff up, yay. i did do some research (via wikipedia) so i hope nothing is blatantly unhistorical! 
> 
> if you're here for the threesomes, you'll have to wait 
> 
> i'm slightly unsure what to do re: earl haraldson, so if anyone has any ideas how he might react ... comments are welcome.

****

            Athelstan is woken from fitful sleep by a cold splash of seawater to the face. Next to him, his brothers are also spluttering. The bitter salty taste makes him want to gag, and he coughs roughly, tearing at his already raw throat.

            The pagan men are laughing at him, at all of them, as they fearlessly navigate through the ocean waters. Athelstan's stomach heaves as he sees the crests of waves to their sides. The last time he can remember being this terrified is when he took his solemn vows, before the entire brotherhood in the oratory of the monastery.

            But then he had his prayers, his God to help him, a God who surely would not allow his followers to die at the hands of savage men from the East.

            _Think of Job_ , Athelstan tells himself. _Think of Jesus Christ on the cross, your suffering is nothing in comparison._

            Reaching up to his collar, he stretches his stiff fingers and pulls the crucifix out from around his neck. He’s placed it there to make sure he didn’t lose it out of his pocket, and to hide it from the pillaging.

            _Pater noster_ , he prays as they crest another wave _,_ _qui es in caelis..._

 

The strange, pale eyed man is looking at him next time he looks up. The one who is clearly their leader, for the men look to him for directions, and he possesses the steering device for their ship.

Athelstan looks back, allowing none of his fear to show on his face. This is the man who did not kill him, even defended him from the other, darker man. Athelstan wonders why.

The man looks away, turns to his fellows and bellows for the birds to be brought out. Why do they need birds, on a ship? Athelstan wonders, watching as they bring a wooden cage, releasing its occupant into the air.

He does not want to imagine what might happen if the boat sank, the cold water clutching icily at his heavy dark robes, dragging him down.

But... perhaps that would be preferable to not knowing, to this uncertain future that awaits them in the Eastern lands. Athelstan can remember the warrior men he encountered years ago, on his missionary trips. They were lucky to escape alive, when the pagans were quick to show they had no interest in Christ’s message.

Swallowing heavily, he resumes his litany of prayer, casting his eyes downward, clasping his hands tightly together.

_Gloria patri, et filio, et spiritui sancto, sicut erat in principio, et nunc..._

           

            The return of the bird, clutching a branch, elicits raucous cheers from the seafarers. Athelstan looks up to see the dark man who threatened him embracing the one who rescued him. Brother, they’d called each other. It makes him want to laugh. Brother. His brothers are huddled, motionless, against the sides of this forsaken wooden ship.

He understands that this means they will soon reach land. It is not a comforting knowledge. The light haired man said they would be sold into slavery, and Athelstan had seen men, women, even children, awaiting the trading block, dirty and wretched.

Perhaps, his thoughts escaped him, perhaps they could escape. They could find... find the nearest monastery, the nearest Christian land to save them from this fate.

Several hours later, a strange, gaunt man with large black rings around his eyes comes bounding down from the prow of the ship, shouting “Land! Trees! I see them, look! Look!”

Athelstan wants to turn, wants to look at something besides endless water, which for a day and a half had all the monks’ stomachs turning, their heads over the side, throats sore from vomit. The men had only laughed.

He looks only at the floor.

 

                        Ragnar can see the priest, the one with their tongue, who begged for his life. He does not look up at Floki’s cry, though one or two of the others turn weakly. The beach is swiftly approaching, and his chest fills with anxious anticipation. Haraldson will see, now that they’re come bearing chests of silver and gold ornaments. Soon Ragnar might be leading his own expeditions to the West, back to find more of these weak men with their strange bald heads and rough robes.

                        They row up and heave anchor as close to shore as possible, and he realises that now he must speak again, for the priest can tell the others what to do.

                        The man does not look up as he approaches. Ragnar stands in front of him, and he can hear the man whispering something he cannot understand.

                        “You, priest,” he booms down, and the man looks up. His face is sunken from the rough seas, a patchy beard shadowing his cheeks. His eyes are guarded, but sharp. He says nothing.

                        “Tell them we have reached land. Tell them...”

                        “Tell them they must swim to shore!” Rollo yells from the other side of the ship. The others heave with laughter. Ragnar finds he cannot join in when he watches the man’s face tighten angrily.

                        “If they swim, we will lose all our slaves, brother! These are not fish we have captured, weak as they may be.” He calls back. “Will their loss come out of your portion of the loot?”

                        Rollo is not laughing any more, as the men turn their guffaws on him. Ragnar watches until his brother looks away.

                        “Tell them to stay out of our way, and they won’t be hurt.” He turns from the man, goes to join his shipmates as they prepare to disembark.

                       

                        Athelstan watches the man’s back. He turns to the closest monk, Brother Aidan, and nudges him softly. “Brother, are you alright?” It’s the first he’s spoken since they were forced into the ship.

                        “God save us all, Athelstan,” comes Aidan’s voice, weak and shaky. “God save us.”

                        “We will persevere,” Athelstan says, trying to project any kind of false confidence into his tone. “Come, help me check on the rest.”

                        None of the monk’s are seriously injured, though all look weak and frightened. “Let us pray,” Athelstan says, “God will hear, even in this dire situation.”

                        One monk scoffs.

                       

                        Ragnar steps off the smaller row boat back onto the deck of his ship. The priests are huddled together. With their bald heads they look like giant babies.

                        He listens for a moment as they chant. Prayers, he guesses, though in what language he cannot tell.

                        “You!” He shouts again, and the priest looks up. “Tell them to come onto this boat.”

                        The monk repeats the command. The monks turn, slowly, and Ragnar can feel uncertainty radiating off them.

                        “Get a move on!” Knut shouts, giving the closest a shove, then laughing as the man falls to the deck. “They’re a useless lot, aren’t they?”

                        Ragnar watches the man, who turns to help his fellow priest to his feet.

                        “Come,” he says as the man looks back to him. “Tread carefully. Your legs will not be used to solid land.”

                        And surely enough, the monks look like young horses trying to walk for the first time as they stumble off the rowboat onto the sandy beachfront. They clump together again, a brown mass of men, looking very pale in the early afternoon sunlight.

                        “Look, Ragnar, we can make them carry this for us, can’t we?” Erik suggests, gesturing to the stacks of heavy metal chests full of treasure, which they’ve unloaded. “It’s mighty heavy.”

                        Ragnar shrugs. He has no desire to lug anything the five miles inland.

                        “Bring them,” he tells the priest.

                        “You’re insane,” the man tells him, eyes blazing. He seems less weary, Ragnar notes, when he’s full of rage. “Some of these men are old, they cannot carry solid silver. We’ve nothing to eat for three days!”

                        “You’ll eat my axe if you don’t do what he says,” Rollo growls. “Any man who cannot carry a simple chest is worthless to us. There is no use letting such a person live.”

                       

                        Brother Aidan nearly collapses on him as they walk, staggering into Athelstan’s side. “God save us,” he’s whispering, over and over. “God save us.”

                        “Think of Christ,” Athelstan tells him, “Carrying the cross. Offer your pain to He who knows infinite loss.” His words lack their usual fervour, for his own back is aching, his legs feel weak and sweat is pooling under his heavy robe. The forest is dense, and humid in the sunlight.

                        The pagans only laugh at their struggles.

                        Ragnar, as Athelstan has found out the blond man is called, frequently looks back at them, presumably to check if any are weak enough for him to kill. Athelstan finds himself glaring at the man’s back, his braid that bobs as he walks. _Forgive me, Lord,_ he thinks. Wrath is coursing through his bones, unbidden, and he has no strength to deny it.

                       

                       

                        


	2. Chapter 2

“My lord, they’ve returned!” The man comes bursting through the door, breathing hard.

Haraldson looks up. “What?”

“Lothbrok, he’s … back. With... strange men, and whole chests full of treasure!”

His nostrils flare.

“Bring him to me.”

* * *

 

There are no waiting crowds as they trek into the village square. But the men and women gathered there all look up as they approach, and their expressions soon turn to amazement.

“What is this?” One man asks. “Where have you found these... men, in dresses?”

“West,” Ragnar replies with a grin.

Soon there is a crowd, and they grow raucous as chest after chest of silver is opened to display.

“Tell us how,” they demand.

“I could not tell such a tale on an empty stomach,” Ragnar replies, and soon food is brought, hearty meats that smell mouthwatering after seafare of dried fish and stale bread.

For the priests they bring thin stew, and ale, and the men silently accept it. The dozen or so of them are huddled to one side, some staring around, some only gazing blankly forward.

When Ragnar tells of how they found the island, how easily the walls fell and the nonexistent fight the men gave, the gathered crowd roars with laughter.

“Like fish in a barrel,” he says. “Only very rich fish indeed.”

The priest is listening, he notes out of the corner of his eye. He does not seem pleased by this story.

But the meeting is soon disrupted.

“Ragnar Lothbrok!” comes a loud shout from behind the listening people. “Earl Haraldson demands your presence.”

Ragnar glances at his brother. He has been expecting this, and with Rollo planning ways to somehow placate the chieftain’s inevitable rage.

“You,” he calls to the priest. “Come with me.”

* * *

Athelstan stands slowly. “Do not go, brother,” Aidan urges him. “Surely they will kill you.”

He says nothing. His heart is pounding as he follows Ragnar out of the central area and into a large wooden building just off the side.

Sitting within in a large wooden chair is a peevish looking man. Athelstan thinks his eyes have a glint of madness in them as they sweep over Ragnar.

“So,” the man says, “You have defied me.”

“I will not deny -”

“What did I tell you, Lothbrok?”

“We succeeded, Haraldson. I was right, we found the Western Isles, defeated the men, captured them and their treasures. Vast wealth can be yours, if you wish it.”

Haraldson’s mouth twists angrily.

“Is that so?” is all he says, cold eyes hard.

“This,” and Ragnar gestures to Athelstan, “is one of the men we captured. They are priests of some foreign god, we think. They offered no resistance to our swords. We returned with as many as our ship could hold, to sell in market. You are welcome to your pick, if you should like it, before the journey to the traders in the east begins.”

Athelstan feels a jolt of panic sweep through him at this.

Haraldson smiles thinly. “You think to placate me with worthless gifts? As if they might make me forget your insurrections.”

“No. I am fully willing to accept the people’s judgement.”

Did he stress the word “people’s?” Athelstan wonders. He cannot help but admire Ragnar’s skills. Clearly he is banking on public opinion siding with the newly rich warriors, who can promise more wealth.

Haraldson seems to realize this too. His smile gets even more thin and brittle.

“We will see,” he says. He turns to Athelstan. “And these men are priests, you say?”

“Ask him yourself. He has our tongue.”

Athelstan awkwardly inclines his head to the chieftain. The man does not seem pleased to find out he can be understood. There is another witness to the conversation, now.

“Priest. How have you come to be here?”

Athelstan wets his lips. Shakily, he replies: “My... brothers and I, we are servants of God. Our... church to the west was invaded by your men. I... I was sent here years ago on a missionary journey, where I learned your language.” He stumbles over the right words to use. “Monastery” probably means nothing to them.

“And are there more of these churches?”

He hesitates. If he lies, they might harm him. If he tells the truth...

“N-no,” he says.

Ragnar laughs. “Do not lie, priest. You cannot save them with misplaced bravery.”

He looks down, saying nothing.

They are allowed to go soon after. As they exit the Earl’s hall, Ragnar laughs again, sounding relieved.

“Gods, I was expecting much harder struggles with him,” he says. Athelstan still says nothing. Is he speaking to me? Does Ragnar expect me to laugh along? Instead, he heaves a weary sigh, feeling exhaustion sweep through him.

* * *

Rollo is waiting when they return to the square. The curious onlookers have gone, all possible variants of the tale having been told. Ragnar is glad; he must discuss things with his brother.

“What did he say?” Rollo asks, drawing him aside and away from the men who remain, the crew of his ship who continue divvying loot.

“He is not pleased, of course,” Ragnar says. “But I’ve agreed to public judgement, so the first obstacle is gone. I think the plan to give him the pick of the slaves will remove any remaining problems. Perhaps a bribe of silver, as well.”

“Good.” Rollo leans in closer. “This was well done, brother. We will be rich indeed.”

Ragnar nods. “And who was it who doubted?”

“Yes, well, if I listened to every hairbrained scheme from the lips of mysterious traders...”

 

The woman arrives in the middle of the night. She slides under his furs and presses against his back.

Ragnar is quick to respond, though his mind stops briefly on Lagertha’s request of a month ago. “Don’t sleep with lots of women in Kattegat.”

* * *

It is two days before the Earl deigns to have his pick of the slaves. Nothing further can be done until his decision is made, but he has drawn it out, perhaps as a mark of his displeasure. As though he is a herdsman, inspecting cattle he examines each man.

Ragnar watches the priests, all of whom flinch under the harsh touch. Food has done them good, though they are still pale and drawn. Where is their courage? He wonders. It is not good to show fear like that, so openly. It smacks of cowardice.

But then, he thinks, the man cannot fight their way out of this. If he were in their situation, it is what he would try, for to die with his weapon in hand is surely better than the life they can look forwars to. Perhaps he cannot begrudge them their fear.

Haraldson stops to speak to the young priest. The priest turns to a second, speaking softly.

“These two will become my thralls,” Haraldson says. His smile is once again cruel.

Something in Ragnar revolts against this, but he cannot tell why. He has no connection to the priest.

The division amongst the crew members begins. Of the remaining slaves, each man is given two.

“Tomorrow night,” Haraldson says, when it is finished. “We will decide the fate of the man who disobeyed his leader’s command. Ragnar Lothbrok.”

The men cheer at his name.

* * *

 

That night Ragnar’s dreams are troubled. A crow, wearing a stone crown, flies across a dark sky, illuminating a path. He sees Lagertha’s face, ringed in flames, her eyes wild and fierce as she lets out a blood curdling war cry. A massive snake battles a dragon.

* * *

 

Athelstan awakes with a lingering image in his mind. A proud face ringed with golden hair, like a halo. In his sleep fogged brain, he imagines this must be what the Madonna looks like.

He and his fellow brother, Cadvan, are led to one of Haraldson’s fields by another slave, who wordlessly gives them shovels. They have already been fitted with heavy metal slave’s collars. The familiar smell of peat hits his nostrils, and Athelstan realises they’ll be digging peat.

It’s difficult work, particularly in his heavy monk’s robe. No other clothes have been given to them, and he wonders if he will have to wear the heavy brown cloth until it falls off his back. The prospect is bleak.

Exhausted and covered in dirt, having finished arranging the blocks of peat to dry, the two monks return, only to find herds waiting to be fed, and stables waiting to be mucked.

By noon, Athelstan is drenched with sweat and tired to the bone. He sees nothing of the man who is apparently his master until hours later.

“Come!” A man’s voice summons them, and the three slaves working in the gardens are led into the house.

The sight that greets them is brutal. A man, whipped and bleeding, lies prostrate on the floor. Haraldson is seated in a chair much like the one Athelstan saw him in at the hall.

“This thrall, my possession, has just been caught attempting to flee,” Haraldson’s voice booms out over them. “For this, I pronounce death.”

There is a ringing silence at these words. Athelstan’s eyes widen. Is this the normal treatment of slaves in this house? He can’t pretend to be surprised. The mark of cruelty is evident in the chieftain’s face.

“I did not!” The man cries from the floor. “I would not do that, I am innocent!”

“Silence!”

A hulking man steps from the shadows. Does the Earl employ his own executioner? Athelstan wonders, repulsed. Are executions common enough for that to be necessary?

It’s over in minutes, but the blood stained floor remains, and Haraldson looks at it dispassionately. He turns to Athelstan and Brother Cadvan.

“You will clean this,” he says to them. “And let it be a lesson to you what happens if you try and disobey my orders.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> building up the ~mystery~ woo
> 
> 'thralls' is the viking word for slaves. they were the worst treated level of society, but i think haraldson would take that to an extreme. 
> 
> next chapter i promise some lagertha!! and some more heated looks between certain monks and vikings and some ~~intrigue~~ 
> 
> one thing i'm not sure about is what to do with siggy. she's pretty great in the show but i haven't got a clue what they're building up to with her. so i kinda just... left her out, even though i think she's awesome.


End file.
